The Gesture
by Got Tea
Summary: He thinks it's potentially a very bad idea... Follows Companionable Silence.


**The Gesture**

…

Boyd really isn't sure this is a good idea. Not at all. He thinks that, maybe, perhaps, there is a slight chance that it is, and he will get home and not find himself deep in proverbial hot water, but the potential is still there for this to go catastrophically wrong. He's done all the necessary homework, checked with all the relevant experts, and been assured, multiple times in fact, that this is not going to be a problem. At least, not in a bare mechanics of the situation, practical sort of way. What Grace thinks, though, will be an entirely different matter.

Until this morning, he was firmly convinced that there existed only one set of eyes in the world capable of making his gruff heart melt. Now, he's not so sure. Well, he's wrong actually. Dead wrong. Because, evidently, there are, indeed, two. Admittedly, this second set of eyes hold nothing like the power over him that hers, deep, infinite and blazingly blue that they are, do. But, and it would most definitely be like pulling teeth to force the admission out of him, he can definitely feel just a little bit of melting going on.

Pale green eyes. Enquiring, curious, slightly suspicious. Hesitantly trusting. Mischievous, adventurous. And disconcertingly considerably impish. It should be a match made in heaven. Should! He keeps telling himself that as he continues the drive home.

He's seriously beginning to wonder why he tagged along with Spence and Kat this morning when he knew damn well he wasn't needed and that they would be fine making such a routine call on their own, but the pile of paperwork that has built up so outstandingly in the last few days, while his attention has been firmly – and fairly – occupied elsewhere, was calling his name with far too much of something like demand in its tone.

Paperwork. Oh yes. The stuff that inexplicably makes the world go round. He heaves a long, drawn out sigh as his thoughts remind him of exactly how he managed to get himself in his current predicament. In his haste to do something, anything at all, really, that would allow him, just for a few hours at least, to forget the mounting administrative tasks awaiting him and get out into the fresh air, he managed to find himself face-to-face with that second set of eyes. The green ones. And he's now quite sure he's never seen eyes that precise colour before. He's not even sure he's ever seen anything that colour before. He wonders if she has either.

This is such a bad idea, he's sure of it now. He wasn't. Not back when the three of them suddenly found themselves in the middle of a crime scene instead of a rather more comfortable home visit, and he first became aware of the problem left behind by some miscreant's misdeeds. No, back then he thought it was a grand idea; one with the potential to solve quite a few problems. Him and his rash, dive-right-in-and-get-on-with-it great ideas. His stupidly misguided, determined impetuousness. Absolutely his fault. Totally. Completely.

It's potentially disastrous. But it might, _might_, just work. And, he suspects, that if it does, it will work spectacularly. Negating, of course, all his ridiculous concerns, and leaving behind only the original brilliance that started this hare-brained scheme of his in the first place. Which still leaves him in exactly the same position – he really has absolutely no idea if this was something he should have plunged quite so enthusiastically in to.

This is such a bad idea.

He's going to be in so much trouble. He really is.

He just knows it.

But maybe…

No.

But…

_No_!

Before he has a chance to firmly rediscover his initial certainty over this entire potentially disastrous scheme, Boyd's home. Time to face to music, so to speak. He can forget his deliberations now; he's well and truly out of time. Glancing at the box on the passenger seat, he sighs again in deep resignation and tries to mentally prepare himself.

It's a good idea. It's really not. Either? Maybe it's both. There is one certainty though, and that is that he is genuinely well-intentioned. Firmly. Unconditionally. Emphatically. Always will be, where she is concerned.

How did this happen? He is not a man given to bouts of uncertainty and questioning. He acts, decisively. He pursues those things he believes in wholeheartedly. He seeks truth, and justice. The fundamental principles of society and humanity that wouldn't have been amiss a few hundred years ago. Right now he's determinedly and desperately seeking her health and happiness. And there it is. That's how this happened. Because he's head over heels in love with Grace, and entirely desperate for her to regain her health so he can spend the rest of his life showing her exactly how much she means to him.

Knowing how it happened still doesn't solve his problem, though. Not in the slightest. But it might just give him a way out of his predicament.

As he walks toward the front door, a heavy feeling of impending doom slowly descending upon his shoulders, a thought occurs to him. Grace is the only woman who has ever challenged him so completely, so fundamentally, and with so much staggeringly engaging ease. Her tenacious ability to hit right back every time he pushes the boundaries has always intrigued him, always kept him on his toes. It's a game they have down to an art form. They push, they pull, they steer each other in the right direction. And maybe that's what he needs to do; subtly nudge her down the path his thoughts took earlier in the day.

Leaving the box on the hall table he puts his finger to his lips for a moment and then strips off his coat, hanging it on the hook beside hers.

"Five minutes," he whispers quietly to the contents. "Just behave yourself, _quietly_, for five minutes." Kicking his shoes off and toeing them under the table out of the way, he makes his way to the living room in search of Grace.

She's there, and the sight of her makes a soft smile spread across his entire face. Curled at the end of the sofa, she has a file open in her lap, a large textbook with multiple bookmarks sticking out of it beside her, and resting on the arm is a notebook in which she's scribbling notes. Or was, in fact. Because her pen may still be resting on the paper, but it quite clearly isn't doing anything even remotely useful, other than creating a large and spreading inkblot as she snoozes away, her head tilted endearing to the side and her glasses slightly askew, having nodded off mid-sentence.

Definitely a little more melting going on inside his heart. He shifts the book and the file first and then gently prises the pen from her grasp. She stirs as he sets it all aside on the coffee table, where another enormous book is also lying open, its pages marked by what appear to be psychiatric reports.

"Peter?" she mumbles behind him, yawning as she stretches slowly.

"Hi," he replies, and then winces. Not a great opening. Maybe she won't notice though. Tired, sleepy Grace tends to be a little less observant than usual. Abandoning his suit jacket over the nearest chair, he slides comfortably down next to her and grins when she leans into him. "How are you feeling?" he asks, wrapping his arms around her and snuggling her closer.

"Just tired," is the honest reply. He believes her. Most of the side effects have slowly dissipated over the last few days, but it's only been just a week today since she collapsed with anaemia and she's still exhausted.

"Good day?" she asks, her eyes closing in pleasure as his fingers slide under her scarf and run through her hair.

"Mmmm," he replies, "Productive." He twists slightly so he can lean down and kiss her. Her hand wanders up his back and slides around his neck as his lips linger on hers, soft and gentle, exploring, adoring and very happily thoroughly loitering in the more than very pleasant territory. Perhaps he's even guilty of, unconsciously, or not, trying to soften her up a little in advance of the big reveal. Or at least addle her senses enough to make his potentially disastrous introduction flow a little smoother.

"What have you done?" she asks when he finally pulls away. Her eyes are hazy with a mixture of love and desire that is regrettably tempered by her ever-present exhaustion, but he can see her mind is as sharp as ever, and he can't suppress a slight grimace.

"What makes you say that?" he asks, recovering quickly and aiming for utter nonchalance. Sadly, he fails miserably and she smirks knowingly at him.

"It's been nearly six months, Peter," she tells him, and the way her fingers are still tracing the back of his neck is more than a little distracting. "And in all that time, you have never once come home and kissed me like that."

Oh.

Has it really been that long, Boyd wonders, and then realises she's right. She had surgery, and the ensuing complications, which not only made recovery longer and harder, but also delayed the start of the chemo. And then there was that disaster with infection and more hospital time, which meant more delays in her treatment. And then she caught pneumonia in October. And collapsed last week. Six months, he thinks. It doesn't feel like it at all. And then it does at the same time.

And, wait a moment, has he really never come through the door, wrapped her up in his arms and kissed with the kind of passionate intent that… of course he hasn't. She's been far too ill. And that, he muses, is a very great shame. Definitely something to file away on his list of things for future reference.

"And," Grace continues, still playing havoc with his senses as she smiles up at him, absolutely serene, her impossibly blue eyes full of welcome mischief, "You're forgetting that I know you very well. I knew the second you looked at me that you were up to something."

Caught. Well and truly. Unable to help himself, he leans down to kiss her again and it occurs to him that yet again she has effortlessly turned the tables on him. He was the one trying to… well, not _exactly_ seduce her, but something like it.

And she's still grinning at him. Exasperating, enticing woman. He's more than met his match in her, and he knows it. Loves it, too; she makes his life interesting. Very interesting.

"So," she raises an eyebrow in silent question, needling him. Not quite ready to give in, he smiles. Slowly and disarmingly. Wickedly.

"So," Boyd repeats, intent on giving just as much mischief as he is getting. But his surprise evidently has other ideas, because just then a slight scuffle emanates from the hall and he cringes. Oh well, he did ask for five minutes, and they are well and truly past that now. Clearly he isn't the only one whose character lacks patience.

Grace sits up, a hint of wariness in her eyes now. "Is there something _alive_ out there?"

"I'll be right back," he promises, getting to his feet and hurrying out before she can ask any more questions.

…

In the hall he takes a moment for a handful of deep breaths, still fervently hoping this is not going to go spectacularly wrong. The box rattles again, and he unfastens the top, peering inside. The green eyes are right there, staring up at him, and he is suddenly immediately reminded of why he was so sure this was a good idea.

"You ready for this?" he asks his new friend, scooping her out of the box and tucking her beneath his arm, in what has already, in the space of just one day, become a favourite position for both of them. "You've got one big chance to win her over here," he says, all seriousness as the two of them make momentary eye contact. In response, delicate paws curl around his hand, holding on to him, and he idly scratches the soft fur between the large pointy ears. Another deep breath, and off they go.

Grace has made her way to the edge of the sofa, and is summoning the energy to stand up and investigate when he walks back in and her mouth falls open in surprise. For once she is too stunned to say anything. Boyd makes his way back over to her, reclaiming his seat beside her, but keeping his prize firmly tucked under his arm.

"A cat," she finally, and rather needlessly, manages to say, still rather taken aback.

He shrugs. "A very nice cat," he elaborates. "One who needs a good home."

Grace eyes him sharply, and he just knows that if she was standing, she'd have her hands on her hips in exasperation. "So you brought it here?"

"Her," he corrects, helpfully, and then shrugs again. "Eve can't keep her."

"Why not?"

"Hannibal."

"Oh." Grace shudders, and he wonders if the same alarming memory of Eve's pet running loose through their office is what she's remembering too.

"You used to have a cat," he reminds her, "when we first met."

"Fred," murmurs Grace, a fond smile descending on her features as much more pleasant memories surface. Years before the formation of the CCU, a colleague had unexpectedly ended up with rather more than the two supposedly male cats she had started out with, and somehow Grace had then received a scruffy twelve week old kitten who went on to spend sixteen spectacularly lazy years snoozing in the sun on her back porch.

"And you have a cat flap," Boyd eagerly points out, still gently stroking his fingers over very soft grey fur. He's right, though it has been locked tightly shut since the winter of their second year of working together, when Fred finally succumbed to old age.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," she tells him. "What if –"

He shakes his head, jumping in quickly. "She's perfectly healthy. Clean bill of health by the vet, and Eve ran a blood test to make sure. I called your oncologist, and she said it would be fine. There's nothing to worry about, Grace."

Grace is looking at him, an eyebrow slightly raised, eyes fractionally narrowed and he can almost feel the intensity with which she is evaluating him and his argument. Too late, he sees the earlier smirk settle slowly and firmly back in place as she takes in his protective hold on the cat in his grip, and the way he is slowly and methodically smoothing his fingers through that silky fur, an action which seems to be responsible for creating the deep and rather soothing purr emanating from the small body tucked between his arm and chest.

"You like her," she grins, and there is a tremendous amount of disgracefully blatant glee in her expression as she slams straight through his carefully planned argument, reducing it to nothing more than dust and ashes in an instant.

Infuriatingly sharp woman. Desperately clinging to his hope for Grace to fall instantly and madly in love with the cat, and thus wholeheartedly want to keep her, he carefully releases his grip and watches as the small feline stretches slowly before standing up lightly on his thigh, revealing herself more thoroughly.

He hears Grace's sharp intake of breath, and knows exactly what is going through her mind. Silver grey fur, head to tail, that gleams softly in the muted light cast by the small lamp on the end table. It looks soft, and it is, but that is not what has so abruptly and intensely caught Grace's attention. It's the markings decorating that fur. Tail and legs are covered in jet black tiger stripes that Boyd has already noticed match up in perfect symmetry when she sits down, and the rest of her body is covered in flawlessly defined leopard spots, also jet black. Large ears, tipped in black, black toes on all four feet and the classic tabby black M on her forehead. The whole effect is stunning. He's never seen a cat like this one. And he's willing to bet Grace hasn't either.

"She is very beautiful," Grace admits slowly, glancing up at him and he can't help the answering smirk; he's going to win this one, he just knows it.

But Grace isn't going to back down so easily. Of course she isn't. Not even when the cat turns her head and stares up at Grace, unleashing that pale green gaze in all its glorious intensity. For a moment, Grace is just as caught in the striking stare as he was, and then she turns back to him, her mask firmly back in place.

"Where did you get her?" she asks, offering her fingers for the cat to sniff.

"A crime scene," he shrugs, watching as the proffered hand is thoroughly inspected before the cat rubs her head along Grace's palm, itching for a fuss. And despite herself, Grace is utterly charmed. "She was evidence," Boyd continues. "She's been in the lab most of the day."

…

It's bitterly cold outside, and more than a little windy, but Boyd is ignoring that fact as he strides along the balcony walkway of the eighth floor of the rather grim block of flats, looking for Keely Walker's front door. Facing the elements is far more preferable than sitting cooped up behind his desk with the staggeringly huge pile of administrative crap that seems to have built up in a far from proportional manner to the three days he has been absent from their basement lair.

Behind him, Spence and Kat are following, looking just as windswept as he is, but despite how miserably cold they are, neither is willing to risk complaining when he is in such an energetic and exuberantly action-orientated mood. He's spent too much time lately in the darker, grumpier, and inevitably louder, aspects of his personality for either of them to risk denting what is, for him, pretty much as good a mood as he can possibly achieve. They are both now slightly more than desperately waiting, hoping and praying for Grace to return sooner rather than later.

How he managed to come back to work yesterday in such a good mood after three days of food poisoning, neither of them are quite sure. But what they do know is that in his absence they succeeded, quietly and peacefully, in wading their way through boxes of files that eventually yielded a name of interest to the CCU's current investigation. And so here they are, banging on the door of flat 806, freezing cold, somewhat dishevelled and more than a little amazed at the way Boyd is still bouncing up and down slightly on his feet, full of excess energy.

There is no answer at the door, and Boyd starts to pace a little, his typical impatience quickly resurfacing as Spence knocks again, slightly louder this time. The silence drags along and still there is no answer. Boyd prowls along the walkway, peering straight into the kitchen window, trying to squint through the net curtains. There's definitely blood, quite a lot of it, and what might be a foot on the floor by the door.

Suddenly his shoulders flex under his heavy winter coat and he straightens, his full height imposing and his expression shifting to serious and faintly dangerous as he turns to Spencer and orders gruffly, "Break it down."

Inside it's a mess. The place has been tossed, and it is glaring obvious a fight of rather epic proportions has happened. Keely Walker, assuming it is her, is very dead but doesn't seem to have been that way for too long.

"Best guess right now, a couple of days," offers Eve, after making her initial observations. "But we'll see, back at the lab."

"Cause of death?" Boyd is looking around, still taking in the devastation of the small flat.

"It looks like strangulation with something soft and smooth. Fabric, probably a scarf or something similar. There's a lot of blood though, and she's got defensive wounds all over her hands. Her knuckles are bruised and torn, too; whoever did this probably has their fair share of bruises from her."

Looking around the small kitchen, Boyd prowls restlessly, searching for something, anything, to give them more clues. Keely Walker was hopefully going to fill in a lot of the holes in their case, and now that there is not even a remote possibility of that happening, he is once again simmering with restless energy, and what was a faint trace of anger is now threatening to bloom into full blown fury at yet another setback.

There's a long, free standing cabinet of some kind against the wall opposite the window, and his eyes pick out the very edge of something that has evidently fallen and slid underneath. It's a hulking piece of furniture, solid oak at his guess, and supported a few inches off the ground on short, squat and rather unfinished looking legs. Crouching down, he shines his torch into the gloom underneath and draws a deep, startled breath as his gaze is firmly met by the reflective glare of a pair of gleaming eyes.

"What have you found?" asks Eve, still knelt over the body a couple of feet away.

"Cat," is his concise reply.

"Yes sir?" Kat sticks her head around the door frame, glances briefly at the bloody corpse and visibly winces before quickly averting her eyes and looking over at Boyd.

"Wrong kind of cat, Kat," he replies, sitting up on his heels. Kat frowns, not quite following. Eve is much quicker.

"Well, it's not hers," she says, indicating the victim and then gesturing to the room. She's right; there is no evidence to suggest a cat lives in this flat.

"What's not hers?" Kat is still confused. Boyd bends down again and reaches carefully and warily under the cabinet; if he meets sharp claws or teeth his thin crime scene gloves are not going to be much of a barrier. The shadowy stare is hesitant and observing, but when he patiently holds his hand still for inspection, he is rewarded not with claws, but a thorough sniff of investigation. Satisfied, the cat creeps forward slightly, and he is able to slide a hand around the small body and gently extract it from its hiding place.

Cat in one hand, and a length of deep blue fabric in the other, he straightens again, suppressing a groan at the irritable grumbling in his lower lumbar region.

"Possible witness," he says, indicating the cat, "And probably murder weapon," he adds, noticing what looks like a rather large blood stain on the cloth. Eve is immediately interested in the scarf, liberating it from his grasp to examine. Kat takes one look at the cat in Boyd's grip and backs away quickly, raising her hands defensively when he holds his captive out to her.

"No chance," she tells him hastily. "I don't like cats." Before he can say anything else, she's gone, vanishing into some other part of the building. Eve's heavy laughter echoes in the small room at the bewildered expression on Boyd's face.

Now out of the shadows, Boyd takes advantage of the brightly lit room and looks down. The bundle of grey fur is dishevelled and clearly underfed, but even through the latex covering his hands he can feel the softness. Interesting markings catch his eye, and he lifts the cat a little higher, inspecting its body. And then it turns its head and looks straight up at him.

…

"Evidence?" repeats Grace as he finishes his story. Boyd nods, fingers now running along the cat's spine, eliciting an even deeper purr as she continues to sniff Grace, still investigating.

"We think the victim was making dinner when she died. A chicken breast was suspiciously missing from the open package on the work surface. Eve thinks she got in through an open window after the killer left; a hungry stray looking for an opportunistic meal."

"She is rather thin," remarks Grace, and her tone is touched with remorse as she warmly tickles the cat under the chin. Boyd can't hide his smirk; this is definitely going his way. When Grace looks up at him though, his expression is carefully tinged with sadness.

"We gave her a decent meal at the office," he reassures her, still determinedly playing his part. "And Eve was very gentle when she took swabs and samples. We even gave her a good grooming; she was really quite scruffy this morning."

"We?" she asks, slyly.

"Eve and I," he replies, resolutely unperturbed by her very knowing grin. "Eve needed someone to hold our friend here while she took the samples." Too late, again, he realises his mistake.

"Our friend?" Grace is shaking her head, her eyes shining with wicked laughter and he can't help the scowl as his irritation breaks through. How does he always do this to himself? How does she so effortlessly end up with the upper hand, each and every time?

Impasse.

They sit quietly; each determined not to be the one to break the stalemate. But, inevitably, in a manner that is just so absolutely entirely predictable, he eventually can't help fidgeting as the silence drags on. And he knows, no matter how hard he tries, he is never going to have anything even remotely close to the levels of patience she possesses. He really shouldn't even bother trying.

She's still smirking at him, knows full well she has him cornered. It's definitely rather infuriating, especially the way she does it with that disarmingly captivating smile that really does make it very hard to concentrate. Oh well, two can play at that game.

Feigning a sudden interest in the source of their discussion, who is now curled between the pair of them, casually cleaning a paw, he catches her by surprise, leaning in suddenly and swiftly, capturing her lips with his own with the shameless intent of not only thoroughly muddling her mind, but also playing absolute havoc with each and every one of her senses. It works, too. The ball is very firmly back in his court, because she is now slightly breathless and keenly exhilarated, and very, very far from her usual clearheaded, composed self. He's starting to feel very pleased with himself.

Until her arms slide around his neck again, and she's somehow lying across him, her body pressed warmly, and very closely, against his. Very quickly his mind is invaded with the scent of her, the taste of her, the feel of her touch. And he's not the only one not thinking clearly anymore either. Not in the slightest. He's not thinking about anything other than her and the dizzying, all-consuming sensations involved with kissing her.

Hazy and breathless, they cling together; she curled tightly against him, her head tucked comfortably into his shoulder, his hands trailing idly up and down her spine as he rests his head against hers. She moves slightly, and then he feels her lips tracing softly over his neck and that's really it, his mind is firmly switched off. Don't think, just feel.

And somehow he's half reclined against the cushions, her hands are caught firmly in his hair and he's holding her as close as he possibly can as their lips tangle in kisses that are hot and demanding, promising so much, and wanting so much more. His hands are wandering of their own accord, seeking skin that is warm and unbelievably soft, causing her to shiver blissfully. He feels her fingers tracing over his neck, across his shoulder and down over his chest, her light touch a searing, exquisite counterpart to her lips on his. A single stray thought runs through his mind; he could very quickly and easily become addicted to this, to her. Maybe he already is, or maybe he hasn't had the chance yet, but he very definitely wants to be.

Reality bites swiftly and painfully though when she pulls back and he catches a fleeting glimpse of wild fury in her eyes before her face is buried in his shoulder and he realises she is seriously struggling to breathe. Moving his hands slowly and easily he can feel her heart hammering in her chest and immediately wants to kick himself; she's not supposed to exert herself. Dear God, he's an idiot. The doctor warned them that it would take time for her body to start producing enough red blood cells to make up for the lingering deficiency. The transfusion brought her back from critically low levels, but she's not strong enough for physical endeavours. He knows that. He's seen exactly how much effort it takes her just to do simple tasks.

Not enough red blood cells in her body, which translates to not enough haemoglobin which in turn means there's not enough oxygen carrying capability in her blood or some such bollocks, which basically distils down into the fact that in no way should she be exerting herself. And all of that means he'd better very quickly recover his self-control, because, as they have evidently so spectacularly just proved, getting far too carried away and lost in each other is only too easy. _Fuck_ this sodding awful disease. It is _so_ not fair.

Right now though, as furious as Boyd is with himself, he can tell Grace is even angrier. Not with him, but with the situation. She's radiating pure, unqualified and categorical frustration. Sitting up, he keeps hold of her, one hand running gently over her back, soothing the suddenly tense muscles there and the other curled over her shoulders, his fingers resting lightly on her neck, running softly over her skin and surreptitiously able to feel her racing but slowly calming pulse. His anger begins to relax.

He doesn't say anything. There's no point; they are both equally aware of what happened and what the other is thinking. They both know exactly how much this wretched disease has taken out of both of them, and how much it still rules their lives, despite how far they have come. It's just the way things are. For now.

It takes a long time, but eventually her breathing is steady and calm, and she sits up enough to stare into his eyes. He raises a hand, lazily and tenderly traces her features and lovingly cups her cheek. He smiles softly at her, and the lingering traces of furious, tormented anger and overwhelmed frustration slide out of her gaze. Her eyes are dark blue and utterly captivating in the soft light of the wall lamps, and he leans toward her, his forehead resting gently against hers, an entire unspoken conversation passing between them. They are quiet for a long time, wordlessly accepting their reality.

…

He is the one who eventually breaks the lingering silence.

"You have a mouse problem in your shed; I'm willing to bet she'll be more than happy to help you out with that," he tells her at last, without really thinking and the remaining remnants of frustrated tension snap, vanishing cleanly away as she begins to laugh; deeply, genuinely and naturally. He joins her, shaking his head as the absurdity of his comment sinks in. Tears are running down her cheeks and he kisses them away with absolute tenderness before folding her back against his body in a heartfelt and very warm embrace.

"Oh, Grace," he sighs, still chuckling and her only answer is to shake her head slightly against his chest.

"Do I really?" she asks eventually, looking up at him and tracing an affectionate finger over the curve of his ear.

"Really what?" he asks lazily, eyes semi-closed at her pleasant touch.

"Have mice in my shed?"

He looks at her and nods, serious. "Yes, you do."

They both look down to find the cat has vanished; paws long since satisfactorily clean, she has wandered off to explore the room during their not-so-brief interlude. Carefully he lifts her off his lap and sets her on her feet before standing himself, keeping a firm grasp on her hand until he's sure she's steady and not about to fall afoul of gravity. Together they begin the search, quickly ascertaining that there is no cat in the living room with them. Nor is there one in the hall.

"We don't have any provisions for keeping a cat," she eventually points out as they continue to search in the kitchen.

He just gives her a look and intones, "Oh ye of little faith…"

She shakes her head behind his back. Really, she should have known. "I see," she prods, unable to resist, "So you were absolutely certain, were you, that I was going to acquiesce?"

He's bent over by the table, affording her a fascinating view that momentarily side-tracks her. It also muffles his reply, but not enough to stop her from grinning. He straightens, cat in hand once again, and frowns down at his captive.

"What is it with you and hiding under furniture?" he asks, trying to prise an errant sock from between those very sharp teeth. The cat stares back, stubbornly refusing to give up what seems to be the missing half of his favourite pair of winter socks. "Come on," he cajoles, fingers tickling the short, fuzzy fur under the cat's jaw. She purrs, but keeps her teeth firmly clenched, and Grace just can't keep the slow smirk from spreading across her face.

Tired, but thoroughly entertained by the scene playing out in front of her, she leans heavily against the counter for support and watches with considerable amusement as Boyd deploys all his charm and cunning in an attempt to regain possession of his sock.

It's quite clearly a lost cause. As would be his impressive reputation if their colleagues could see him now.

"She stays," intones Grace with considered finality, just as, frustrated, Boyd growls,

"I've changed my mind!"

They stare at each other, she amused and he exasperated before he sighs deeply, pulls out a chair for her and then hands over the troublesome creature. Grace sits, gratefully, and settles the newcomer in her lap.

He reaches for the kettle, intent on making tea.

"And you're sure she's a stray?" Grace and the cat are staring at each other now, considering one another with equal intensity.

"Positive," he confirms. "There's no microchip, she's undernourished, and some of the neighbours reported having seen her lurking around, scavenging food."

"Oh dear," sighs Grace, her attention locked on the cat that is standing in her lap, sniffing her sweater. "You poor little thing."

"It really is sad," agrees Boyd, still shamelessly playing on her empathy, though he's not entirely sure why. Not if his socks are going to suffer for it. He was right. He knew this was a bad idea.

"Has she got a name?" enquires Grace, tracing her fingers delicately over leopard spots.

"Well, we've been calling her Kitten all day," he shrugs. The kettle boils and he makes the tea, tucking the cosy over the pot before turning around.

"Kitten? I don't think she's going to grow any bigger. She might fill out a bit with a few decent meals though." Kitten is now standing up on her back legs in Grace's lap, and, front paws firmly planted on her shoulder, she is sniffing Grace's chin. His lips twitch at the sight. Bad idea, his arse.

"The vet reckons she's only about nine months old; she's still just a baby, Grace!"

"Seemingly," she replies, as fascinated with the inspection she is receiving as the cat is with conducting it. "And you've already convinced me, Peter, no need to keep up the show."

"Jolly good." He reaches for their mugs, extracts the milk from the fridge.

"Kitten? Really? It's not very original, is it?" she asks.

"Well we couldn't exactly call her Cat, could we?"

"I suppose not," concedes Grace, thoroughly charmed by the way the small head has disappeared inside the pocket of her sweater. She's quiet for a moment, then asks, "What are we going to call her, then?"

Boyd laughs. "So _not_ my department, Grace."

"Really?" she replies playfully, and her tone makes him abruptly reconsider.

"No," he hastily backtracks, turning to study her. "Nothing… hippyish," he warns, and Grace just grins.

"So, not Snowflake, then?" she taunts him.

"Grace, I am not shouting Snowflake out the back door to summon her inside for her dinner," he says flatly.

"So you're going to feed her then?"

He groans and puts their mugs on the table.

"Guess that rules out Tiger-Lily then, too," she ponders, expression still wickedly impish. He glares balefully at her and sinks into his own chair.

"How about Mia, or Tiggy?" she suggests calmly.

"Not bad," he grants, taking a deep, grateful sip from his mug. Kitten gives up on the pocket, having found nothing of interest, and, reclaiming her toothy hold on the sock she left in Grace's lap for the duration of her explorations, peers over the table edge at him.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Two pairs of eyes are watching him. One pale green, stubbornly defiant in their possession of the sock, thoroughly intrigued by their new surroundings, and full of promise for a mischievous and entertaining future. The other the most captivating, intense blue he has ever seen. Full of love, understanding and acceptance. Everything and anything he could ever want or need in someone he wants to share his life with. He wonders if his eyes reflect back everything he sees and feels. He hopes so. He hopes she knows, exactly, just how much she means to him.

"Freyja," he finally says. Grace stares at him for a long moment before she nods in agreement. She holds his gaze, and he knows. She understands completely. Freyja. Norse goddess of love. Because he loves her.

…

Boyd evidently had just a little too much fun at the pet shop, Grace reflects, as she watches Freyja whack a Ping-Pong ball across the room with an impressively agile swipe of her paw. In the last hour that they have been preparing and eating dinner, her previously relatively tidy kitchen has been transformed into something much more akin to a war zone.

A second box, this time liberated from the boot of his car, has revealed all the necessary items required for keeping a small feline, and quite a few more required only for sheer entertainment. For Boyd's or Freyja's, Grace isn't quite sure, not given the way he has gleefully and successfully been teasing the cat since the moment he revealed his treasures. So effectively in fact, that Freyja didn't even pause to show an interest in her dinner until the two of them sat down to eat their own and playtime took a temporary halt.

Really, what is he like?

Her plate clear, Grace leans her head wearily on her hand and observes, with amusement of the increasingly fond kind, the frantic and very enthusiastic game of smack the ball and chase very athletically and immediately after it. Repeat, ad infinitum. Oh to have so much energy, she thinks.

Boyd is watching her from across the table, her gaze flickers over to him, and he smiles at her in that deep, lazy and very loving way of his. It never fails to melt her heart.

"You okay?" he asks, voice soft.

"Exhausted," she admits, and it's the brutal truth. She's so tired everything aches very unpleasantly, and the mere thought of standing up to clean the kitchen is an overwhelmingly gloomy prospect. Climbing the stairs to bed seems tantamount to torture right now. Not that she really wants to turn in just yet; she's had enough early nights in the last few months to last her a lifetime.

As if reading her mind, Boyd is suddenly right there in front of her, pulling her gently out of her seat and leading her back to the living room. Freyja follows, a stuffed mouse clutched tightly in her mouth. Training, perhaps? They settle quietly together on the sofa, watching the little one tumble and wrestle around on the floor, the mouse rapidly losing an eye and its tail to the game.

"She's going to sort your shed out so quickly," snorts Boyd, thoroughly fascinated. Grace nods in agreement and tugs the blanket tighter around her shoulders, shivering. Boyd sighs and pulls her further into his lap, tucking himself around her as much as possible. He wonders if she is ever going to get past this, or if she will always be cold now. It's not a very pleasant prospect. But on the other hand, there are certain very pleasant ways of warming her up again. Very pleasant indeed.

Across the room the mouse has disappeared and the cat has settled down on the armchair, falling quickly into very peaceful slumber, sprawled against the cushions, thoroughly stretched out, legs draped every which way. Not at all in the neat and tidy curled up position the pair of them were expecting.

"God, she's just like you," snickers Grace. "Wild, ferocious energy one minute, and pure laziness the next."

He merely shakes his head and kisses the top of hers. "You like her though? Honestly?" He's serious, thoughtful.

"Yes," she replies easily. Because she does. Though she foresees a great deal of chaos in the coming days.

"Good!" Decisive. Also quite a bit relieved. Grace presses her lips tightly together to stop herself from laughing at just how far he has evidently fallen for Freyja. A cat, of all things. Her big, tough, brash, stubborn Detective Superintendent succumbing to the charms of a tiny feline. Oh, the opportunities that gives her.

He's quiet for a long time, still thinking.

"I thought of you as soon as I picked her up," he tells her truthfully, finally breaking his silence. "She's warm, Grace! Really warm. Like a living, breathing hot water bottle. And she purrs. It's very soothing."

And she really doesn't know what to say.

It's entirely and absolutely uncharacteristic, but it's true regardless.

She knows he worries about her, incessantly. Knows he keeps a tight rein on the edge of terror that threatens to sometimes overwhelm him, especially when things go wrong. And go wrong they have; she's seen it in his eyes every time she's found herself back in hospital and he's been forced to wonder if that's it. The point where determination simply isn't going to be enough to get them both through it, where his incredibly intense and resolute protectiveness can do nothing to keep the harm at bay.

She is quite used to it. Likes that he is so determined. Loves that he cares so much, so deeply. She does, sometimes, wish that he would talk to her, tell her what he is thinking, feeling. But she knows that's not his way. Boyd doesn't do words like she does. He's too impatient, too easily exasperated to form long and complex dialogues about his thoughts and feelings. She talks, he acts. That's the way it works with them, always has.

He's not sentimental, and she's never imagined him to be overly romantic, though she knows full well he can be, when, and if, he chooses to be. He is, however, far more thoughtful than most people would give him credit for. He may not be particularly emotionally talkative, but as the old saying goes, actions speak louder than words. And his actions speak to her, loud and clear.

Oh, he's told her, a great many times, exactly how much he loves her. She thinks their circumstances have made him a lot more free with the words than he might have been had their relationship evolved in a less stressful time. But he also shows her, frequently, just how much she means to him. Small gestures, usually with no explanation. Little things that he does for her let her know just how much he notices, and exactly how much he cares. It's made her battle that much easier to fight.

And then sometimes he does, or says, something that completely takes her breath away.

Like this.

Bringing her a cat. To keep her warm. And to provide company. Most men would probably have just brought her an extra blanket. Not Boyd. And the way he does it so naturally, without having to stop and think, or plan; it's really rather special. And it tells her so much more about his deeper thoughts and feelings than his voice ever will.

She is touched beyond words by his thoughtfulness. She is always cold now; a deep, pervading and bone-numbing cold that is almost impossible to banish. It's like a nagging bug that stubbornly refuses to budge, and the relentless shivering drags her down, adding to her ever-present exhaustion. A fact she knows he's well aware of, and worries about constantly.

She really couldn't love him any more if she tried.

She still doesn't know what to say either. It's certainly a rarity, but then so is he. So she tucks her hand into his, their fingers lacing securely together, and snuggles her head against his shoulder. And it's enough. He understands. They both do.


End file.
